Eclogues
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- and the green lizard hides him in the thorn:
- now for tired mowers, with the fierce heat spent,
- pounds Thestilis her mess of savoury herbs,
- wild thyme and garlic. I, with none beside,
- save hoarse cicalas shrilling through the brake,
- still track your footprints 'neath the broiling sun.
- Better have borne the petulant proud disdain
- of Amaryllis, or Menalcas wooed,
- albeit he was so dark, and you so fair!
- Trust not too much to colour, beauteous boy;
- white privets fall, dark hyacinths are culled.
- You scorn me, Alexis, who or what I am
- care not to ask—how rich in flocks, or how
- in snow-white milk abounding: yet for me
- roam on Sicilian hills a thousand lambs;
- summer or winter, still my milk-pails brim.
- I sing as erst Amphion of Circe sang,
- what time he went to call his cattle home
- on Attic Aracynthus. Nor am I
- so ill to look on: lately on the beach